


Let's just see how we go

by becka



Category: BBC Radio 1 RPF, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Solo Artist Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 18:43:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9136789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/becka/pseuds/becka
Summary: Nick is a prostitute with a high-end client list, and he can think of any number of ways aspiring popstar Harry could have gotten his number, dozens of people from any major label who could have handed him a card and said, “If you want to experiment, be discreet.”Harry is seventeen at the beginning of this story.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Lucy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/balefully) for the beta. Any remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction.
> 
> Title from Lily Allen.

Nick’s in bed with Aimee, catching up on X Factor when his business mobile rings, playing _Roxanne_. Aimee rolls her eyes so hard he can practically hear it and pauses a girl group mid-trill. The call is a London number, unfamiliar. “Hello,” Nick says into the phone.

“Hi,” says a low voice. “I’m trying to reach Nick. I got a card from, um.”

“The usual sort of place, I’m sure,” Nick replies smoothly. “I’m Nick. What can I do for you?”

There’s a short silence, and Nick recognizes the hesitancy of someone who’s never engaged the services of a prostitute before. “I wanted to make an appointment,” the man on the phone says, “I guess.” He’s got a slow, Northern voice, and Nick pictures him plain and shy, politely closeted.

“What’s your name, love?” Nick asks.

“Harry.”

“Lovely to speak with you, Harry. What sort of thing are you interested in? I offer a variety of services.”

“I’m not really sure,” says Harry. “Believe it or not, I haven’t done this before.”

Nick laughs, doesn’t have to force it. “Well, let me tell you a few things up front.” He rattles off his hourly rates and doesn’t hear any startled gasping on the phone. “Do you have a place? I’m happy to get a hotel room, obviously, if you need me to be more discreet.”

“No, I have a place. You can come here. Do you have, like, regular hours?”

“Well, typically I like to keep to banker’s hours, you know, nine to five. Hour break for lunch.”

Harry laughs this time, and Nick’s pleased that he doesn’t have to explain that he’s teasing. “I was hoping for something a bit later in the evening. After dark, you know.”

“I could pencil you in after tea some night. Just don’t tell anyone. It’s a big exception.”

“I can be discreet, too,” Harry says.

“Then we’ll get along fine, I’m sure.” He takes down Harry’s details and rings off. 

Aimee’s still got her eyebrows up, curious. “New client?”

“Very new,” says Nick, with a leer. “But that’ll be nice, I think.”

“Young?” asks Aimee.

Nick shrugs. Hard to tell. “I think just inexperienced. Needs someone to show him the ropes.”

“Did he ask for ropes?” Aimee asks, miming shock. “That doesn’t sound like beginner stuff.”

“Ha ha. If I do well by him, maybe he’ll become a repeat customer.” Nick doubts that, honestly, given his rates. His regulars are actors and fashion designers, the occasional footballer’s wife, people with an awful lot of money. Harry’s flat is in a less-than-posh part of east London, and Nick suspects he’s some sort of young professional, maybe a banker himself, finally away from his family home and able to experiment to his heart’s content. Nick feels oddly fond of this speculative Harry, with his prematurely receding hairline and little paunch under his conservative suit, past the age where going out to get fucked for the first time is effortless. Nick encounters a lot of this type, men who’ve only just found themselves, wrested free from first marriages and the like. He looks forward to the ease of fucking someone who’s grateful for the opportunity.

 

Nick would never in a million years have expected the kid who opens the door, barefoot and blushing and shockingly pretty under his wild mop of curls. And young. Christ, so young. Nick briefly hopes this is his client’s _child_ , however awkward that would be. But then he opens his mouth, and out comes that slow, Northern voice. “Hi. Are you Nick?”

“I am indeed. And that makes you Harry, I suspect.”

He smiles, quick and flickery, uncertain, then shakes his hair out of his face. “Yeah. That’s me. Would you like to come in?”

Nick hitches his bag up on his shoulder, sees Harry’s eyes settle on it, curious. Nick has to stop himself from tutting and pointing out that he doesn’t carry the sort of toys popular with children. “I’m sorry, Harry. I don’t mean to be rude. But how old are you? I’m not looking for any more legal complications than strictly necessary here.”

“Seventeen,” says Harry with a small smile. “Almost eighteen. Over the age of consent.”

“Excellent. Glad to hear it.” Nick glances around. The lounge door stands open behind Harry, blank walls and bland furniture. “Have you lived here long?”

“No,” Harry says. “I’m, um, I’m making an album? My record label is putting me up here. They own the flat, but I’m just in it, you know, until I find a place of my own. That’s why it looks like nobody lives here.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Nick tells him. “But it is awfully plain. You don’t seem like a very plain person.”

Harry shuffles a hand through the mess of his hair, teasing it up off his face. “How do you know?”

“Plain people don’t hire me.” If Harry’s an aspiring popstar, Nick can think of any number of ways he could have gotten Nick’s number, dozens of people from any major label who could have handed him a card and said, “If you want to experiment, be discreet.” Everything starts to slide into place. “Do you think we could sit down? Talk a bit about what you’re looking for?”

“Oh, yeah, of course,” says Harry, shouldering backwards into the lounge. “Sorry, I don’t know the right way to do things here. Can I get you a cup of tea or anything?”

“That’s all right. But if you’d like one, go right ahead.”

Harry takes a seat on the couch instead and folds his hands in his lap. He’s got broad shoulders under his thin t-shirt, but the rest of him just looks like a kid, awkward joints and long, coltish limbs. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “I really don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

“You’re not supposed to do anything, love,” Nick replies. “Not yet. We’ll talk about why you hired me and what you want, and then we’ll both do whatever we need to to help you get it. All right?”

“Yeah,” says Harry. “All right.”

“So what did a fit young lad like yourself think you needed to pay for?” Nick asks, and Harry looks up from under his eyelashes, like he’s not sure if he’s being mocked.

“I wanted to try it, with a man. But I, my agent was afraid I’d end up in the tabloids before anyone even really knows who I am. I mean, I’ve only just done my first single. And people told me you were…”

“The professional kind of starfucker? The kind who keeps secrets?”

“Exactly. They said you were really good at your job.” His cheeks are pink, but he meets Nick’s eyes.

“I am,” says Nick. He’s not cocky, but he’s confident in his own performance. He’s had plenty of time to perfect his craft.

“Look, I.” Harry rubs his hands over the knees of his jeans. “Could you maybe tell me a bit about yourself? It’s weird, like, doing this when we’re strangers.”

“Whatever you’d like, Harry.” Nick has very few secrets of his own. He says it gives him more space for other people’s.

“Well, you’re obviously not from London.”

“Oldham, greater Manchester. I don’t care at all about football though, so don’t even ask.” Harry grins at that, dimples up prettily and ducks his head. “I’ve got siblings, but they’re a lot older and very respectable. My nieces don’t know what I do for work.”

“Have you always been a…”

“Lady of the evening? No one’s born like this, young Harold. I DJ sometimes. I wanted to work in radio, but I only ever had gigs in the middle of the night, and now I’ve got more fun things to do in the middle of the night.”

Harry licks his pretty pink lips. “Is it fun?”

“Sex? Oh, Harry, if you have to ask, you’ve been done badly wrong.”

“Not sex.” His hand moves like he wants to smack Nick’s arm, but he’s not sure if he’s allowed. “But like, sex for money?”

“It’s interesting, usually. Except when it’s dead boring, and then I just feel thankful I’m not an accountant like my sister. Even dead boring sex is better than other people’s investment income.”

Harry laughs. “Yeah. I guess it would be.”

“Does that help then? Hearing a bit about me? Do you want to tell me a bit about yourself in return?” He’s had to coax plenty of shy virgins in his day, but none of them as disconcertingly pretty as Harry.

“Think so,” says Harry. “Not much to tell, really. I grew up in Cheshire. I’ve got a sister and a cat and a recording contract. And this flat with nothing of mine in it. That’s about all, really.” He gives a little shrug and shoves his hair out of his eyes again.

“Have you been with anyone before?” Nick asks.

“Girls,” says Harry sheepishly. “Like, not a lot of girls by your standards, I’m sure. But a lot by the standards of college in Holmes Chapel.” It’s bragging, simply, but Harry also sounds completely honest.

“And how many is that, love?”

“Six. But two were at the same time, so like, I don’t know how that counts.”

Nick thinks of himself at seventeen, how very, very far he was from threesomes, but then he wasn’t on his way to pop stardom either. “And did something put you off women after that?”

“No. I still, I mean, no. I just always thought I’d like it, with a boy. And now I’m in London, I thought maybe I’d have a chance. There aren’t a lot of gay people in your average village in Cheshire. Surprisingly.”

“So you thought you’d come to London, meet new people, find a nice boy who liked you. And instead your record company bought you a whore.” Nick feels a regretful twinge in his chest, thinking of Harry’s bright-eyed optimism.

Harry folds and unfolds his hands in his lap. “You make it sound awful.”

“Isn’t it a bit awful?” asks Nick.

“You said your job was always interesting.”

“Well, my job isn’t awful, but that doesn’t say anything about your label’s motivations. Harry, if you just want a boyfriend, there are always discreet ways of getting one. You don’t have to pay for that.”

“Dunno if I want a boyfriend,” says Harry, a shade towards petulant. “Right now I just want to get laid. Is that all right?”

“That’s my specialty.” Nick curls a hand over both of Harry’s, stopping his fidgeting. “Now what do you want?”

Harry takes a slow, shuddering breath. “Can I blow you? I think I’d… I think I’d like that. I’ve always been good with my mouth.”

Nick grins. “You certainly can. Where would you like to go in your anonymous flat?”

Harry nods over his shoulder, towards what must be the bedroom. In the doorway, he turns on the overhead light and strips, backlit in front of it, broad shoulders and blossoming biceps and still soft over his belly. There’s nothing shocking about his body except how careless he is about showing it off. And Nick can’t help remembering how he was at seventeen, pudgy and still growing into his face, putting off potential bullies with humour, getting remarkably unlaid. Harry’s already well past him.

Harry strips off like a kid in the locker room, quick and efficient, no flourishes. But Nick’s a professional, and Harry’s paying him handsomely to suck his cock, so he lingers over his own shirt buttons, revealing flashes of collarbone, then the dark prickle of his chest hair. Harry’s in tight black boxer-briefs, and the bulge of his dick is impressive beneath, nothing for him to hide.

Nick perches on the side of the bed once he’s naked, legs spread a little to show off his hard cock. Harry swallows visibly, his eyes caught down between Nick’s legs. Slowly, as though he’s mesmerized, Harry sinks to his knees, settling himself on the floor between Nick’s feet. He’s right up close to Nick’s cock like that, staring at it with his mouth slightly open, and Nick lets him just contemplate for a moment before he says, “Would you like some tips, love?” He keeps his hands braced on his thighs so he won’t preemptively tangle them in Harry’s thick mop of hair. Which is exactly what he wants to do, and what he will do later if Harry’s into it.

“Okay,” Harry agrees, blinking slowly up at him. He’s biting at his lower lip, folding it into his mouth as though he’s got half a mind to cover his teeth, but he’s not sure he’s got the hang of things yet.

“The most important thing is to breathe. If you stop breathing, you’ll probably panic and choke, and I don’t think either of us want that. Sometimes it’s nice, a little bit of choking, but not for your first time.” Harry nods but doesn’t move any closer. “Do you want to touch me, love? You’re allowed.”

Harry wraps a hand around Nick’s cock, nice big hand, nice long fingers. He thumbs at the edge of Nick’s foreskin, then leans forward to lick the head of his own accord. His pretty green eyes flutter shut, and he lingers, dragging his lips over Nick’s slit.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Just try it out. Get it a bit wetter and see how it feels.”

Harry with his eyes closed is a more confident cocksucker than Harry with his eyes open. He mouths sloppily over the head of Nick’s dick, plump lips shielding his teeth as he bobs wetly on it. Nick can practically see him remembering blowjobs past, trying to recreate them with gentle sucking that brings Nick’s dick farther into his mouth. “Don’t go deeper than you like,” Nick advises him. “You can keep using your hand just like you are and no man in his right mind would complain. You never need to gag to give good head.”

Harry pulls off, and his voice sounds a little bit scratchier already. “What if I want to deepthroat?”

Nick strokes the cut of his jaw, down the side of his neck. “That’s a bit more advanced than what I wanted to get you into tonight. It’s better to get the basics down before you start on advanced techniques.”

The way Harry looks up from under his eyelashes indicates there are some advanced techniques he’s already got down cold. “I just want to know if I’d like it,” Harry says, low and plaintive, a voice that must make people want to give him things all the time.

“Decide if you like the rest first.” Nick’s coaxed all sorts of men through all sorts of hangups and fetishes and first times, and he wants to give Harry the benefit of that expertise.

“I do like the rest,” Harry replies, licking his pretty pink lips.

“Then show me.”

Harry shivers and shuts his eyes again, lips making a tight O this time as he slides back onto Nick’s cock. Nick can tell he likes being bossed around a little, and he feels a bit protective, reaching out to stroke the hollow of Harry’s cheek. His own pleasure is secondary right now, but it’s creeping up on him anyway as Harry bobs on the first few inches of his cock. Harry’s tongue circles the head, flicks over his slit, and Nick brushes a hand over his wild hair, rubs gently at his scalp.

“Can you hold my head?” Harry asks, soft and shy, his lips still nearly touching the crown of Nick’s cock. He doesn’t look up. “I’ve seen that in porn. I think I’d like it.”

Nick drags a hand through his curls, grips tightly just above his left ear. Harry’s breath catches, and he twists a little under Nick’s hand, humming contentedly as Nick’s fingers tighten. He clearly knows more about himself than Nick gave him credit for initially. His mouth is hot and wet, and he’s finding his own limits, eyebrows furrowing as he tries to go too deep and has to pull back.

Nick murmurs encouragement, watches Harry lose himself in it. He doesn’t need any further advice now that he’s got it, and Nick doesn’t think anyone’s a natural at blowjobs, but Harry looks like he’s just stumbled on a new favourite hobby. “I’m almost done, love,” Nick tells him, as he feels pleasure starting to coil tighter in his balls. “However much you think you want me to come in your mouth, you don’t.”

Harry’s eyelids flutter, and he pulls back slowly and reluctantly, watches open-mouthed as Nick finishes himself off by hand. He leans his cheek against Nick’s knee as Nick comes in long stripes across his belly. His lips are puffy and he’s flushed practically down to the waist of his straining boxers.

“Was that alright?” Harry asks, and Nick nearly laughs.

“It was wonderful,” he says, thumbing at Harry’s lower lip. “What shall I do for you now?”

Harry looks down at his crotch as though he’s noticing it for the first time. “You don’t have to.”

“You’re paid up to the top of the hour, love. Let me do my job.”

“Your mouth?” says Harry, a question rather than a request.

It turns out Harry’s dick is even better than Nick expected, long and thick and so hard, and if Nick didn’t feel guilty that Harry’s management bought him a prostitute instead of telling him to find a boyfriend, he’d joke that Harry was fit to make some man very happy someday. His hands flutter over Nick’s hair as Nick sucks him, and he makes helpless little whining noises as he gets close. Harry is still a teenager, and it’s over quickly, but Nick holds him off a little, pulling off to work Harry with his hand in long, spit-slick strokes. Harry’s eyes catch his before he drops his head back and comes, hips hitching upward. Nick lets one spurt hit his cheek before he cups his palm over the head of Harry’s dick to catch the rest.

It’s five till, but he lets Harry kiss him for longer than his allotted time, boneless and clumsy in his bed. “It’s twelve minutes past,” Harry says, catching sight of Nick’s watch after a while. “Do I owe you extra?”

“Not today, love,” says Nick. He tries to be firm but not ruthless in his business dealings, and he’ll only enforce his hourly rate if someone seems inclined to question it. “Did you get what you needed?”

Harry frowns, seems to choose his next words carefully. “I confirmed what I already knew. I don’t know if it helps.” He rolls out of bed and tugs on his pants, doesn’t seem inclined to bother with anything else.

Nick starts to pick his own clothes off the floor. “Listen, I can’t tell you what to do about your label, but if you ever want just a bit of fun, there are loads of members-only clubs in London with no-cameras policies. Great places to be seen coming or going, and what you do in the toilets won’t be caught on film. Once you’re eighteen, it might be worth checking out anyway.”

Harry nods. “Thanks. That’s—you didn’t have to try and help.”

Nick kisses him on the cheek. “Just a little professional advice.”

Harry wraps himself in the duvet to walk Nick to the door, and it makes him look even younger somehow, the way he clutches it around his shoulders. “Thanks for, like, your services.” Harry wrinkles his nose. “That’s definitely not what you say, is it?”

“Well, you’ve said it now. And you’ve got my card if you need another appointment, yeah? Or if you fancy sending me your brand new single.” Nick regrets a little not asking what kind of music Harry makes. The only thing he likes better than talking about sex is talking about music. Especially with the way Harry lights up.

“Do you want to hear it? You’d have to promise to tell me what you think.”

“I never stop telling people what I think,” Nick replies. “You won’t be able to shut me up.”

“I’ll send it then. It should be soon.”

Nick puts a hand on the door to show he’s really leaving. “Have a good night, Harry.”

“You too, Nick.”

 

Harry never makes another appointment and never sends a single, which is about as Nick expected, but in January, Nick hears his song on the radio and feels sort of casually pleased at Scott Mills saying, “And that was ‘See the World with Me’ by Harry Styles, new this week on Radio 1. Only seventeen is Harry Styles, from Cheshire.”

Nick doesn’t think much about the song, but he finds himself humming it the next day, and he downloads it when Harry’s face pops up in an article on up-and-coming male singers, Harry grinning beside Olly Murs in the accompanying photo. Nick’s been hired by plenty of minimally famous people in his time, but few whose rise he could chart like he charts Harry’s. It pleases him to hear Harry’s song in the supermarket and to recognize the last few bars in a cab as he gets in. When he hears a dance remix of Harry’s song, he slips it into his next DJ set, the gravelly, pining edge to Harry’s voice sounding more urgent over a beat.

 

The next time Nick sees Harry, it’s the Sunday before Valentine’s Day, and he’s sprawled around a table at Groucho with Pixie and Daisy, drinking fruity cocktails and rating the assets of every man who walks by in catty undertones.

“Ooh, look at that one talking to Aimee,” says Pixie, leaning into Nick’s shoulder for a better look. Nick eyes the classic black Converse, the skinny jeans over long, shapely legs, a small but nice handful of bum, and then up the slight taper of his torso to broad shoulders and a familiar mop of curls.

“Seven out of ten,” says Nick, who is a professional at keeping secrets. “With room for improvement. We haven’t seen the front of him yet.”

Harry turns, and Daisy says, “I think that face is at least an 8.5.”

“9 if he has any idea how to use that mouth,” adds Pixie.

Nick nods agreeably. Aimee’s got an arm tucked through Harry’s, and Nick sees the moment Harry notices him, his gaze sliding subtly sideways, and his mouth pinching like he’s rehearsing what to say.

“Ladies,” says Aimee, stepping up to the table with Harry in tow, “I’d like you to meet Harry Styles. Harry, this is Daisy, Pixie, and Grimmy.”

“Hiya,” says Harry, shaking their hands in turn, one dimple just starting to pop in his cheek.

“Nice to meet you, Harry,” Nick says warmly, just to reassure him of his discretion.

Harry’s eyes linger on him for a moment, and he squeezes Nick’s hand before pulling away. Daisy and Pixie give each other a significant look that Nick just catches out of the corner of his eye. Aimee continues her introduction.

“Harry’s just released his first single, and he’s going to be the next Bieber in under six months, I’m sure, so you should ogle him up close now because he’s going to need proper security soon.”

“Couldn’t you protect him?” Daisy asks. “Americans are supposed to be so tough, right?”

Aimee sinks into a chair and flexes one arm. “The toughest.”

“I’ve felt very safe,” Harry pipes up. He takes a seat next to Nick’s, and their knees touch. Harry doesn’t know what to do with his long legs still, and it makes Nick feel so absently fond of him, just like hearing his song on the radio.

“Why haven’t we seen you out and about with Aimee before?” Pixie asks, leaning across the table for a better look at Harry.

Harry ducks his head and ruffles a hand through his hair, shaking it out self-consciously. “I’ve only just turned eighteen,” he says. “So I was a bit of a liability for going out until the week before last.”

Nick remembers telling him he should come to clubs exactly like this once he was eighteen, and although Harry doesn’t look his way, he feels pleased to have someone take his advice.

“You’re a baby!” squawks Pixie, who has been the baby of the group as long as they’ve all known each other. Harry looks even younger when he smiles. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”

It’s funny, how easily Harry slips in with his friends, chatting about food and music, asking for recommendations for places to go in London. But every time he looks at Nick his smile goes a little uncertain, his banter a little less effortless. Nick wants to reassure him, but how exactly would he do that?

 

Aimee turns up to Nick’s next DJ gig with Harry, and Nick slips Harry’s song into his playlist immediately, just to watch the way Harry’s face lights up when he hears it. Aimee laughs and ruffles his hair, and they squeeze closer to the booth whilst Nick resets his next few songs to follow from Harry’s. “What a banger!” Nick calls, when Harry’s near enough that he might hear.

Harry grins and does a little shimmy, clumsy but charming. He and Aimee dance in front of the booth for a few songs before he beckons them up behind the decks. Harry’s eyes go wide as he looks at Nick’s equipment, and Nick’s tempted to say, “Shall I teach you how to do it?” but he’s got paying customers counting on him to mix with professional skill. And he does; he takes this job just as seriously as the other kind, and he wants to do them both well. His whole life involves trying to make sure other people have a good night. And Harry seems to get along fine anyway, fluttering his eyelashes for men and women who flirt with him, flailing around the dancefloor with Aimee. At the end of the night Nick’s ears are ringing, and he’s flushed and sweaty as he leans against the small stage sipping a beer.

“That was really cool,” Harry says shyly.

“Thanks, Haz. I’ll get that on my business cards. Up and coming popstar Harry Styles says I’m ‘really cool’.”

“I didn’t say _you_ were cool, but the music was.” He nudges his elbow against Nick’s, and his eyes hold Nick’s for one long moment before he dips his head down with a smile.

Nick smiles back. “Thanks, up and coming popstar Harry Styles. I’m still putting it on my business cards though.”

“That seems fair.” Harry squeezes his hand. “You’re giving me plenty of promo to cool people.”

“So you’re willing to admit my set is cool, and I know cool people, but not that I’m cool.”

“Yes, exactly.” He kisses Nick on the cheek. “Never you.”

“Thanks, babe,” says Nick. Aimee laughs at them both, and Nick feels so fond of them, almost forgets for a moment that Harry ever paid him for his services. He thinks maybe he’d like to kiss him, just for the sake of kissing.

 

Nick’s next gig is an ‘80s theme night at a hole-in-the-wall club in Hackney, and he’s been in the booth for nearly an hour with no sign of anyone he knows coming round. He’s had disheartening texts from Aimee (who’s got a dodgy tummy) and Pixie (whose favorite neon pink stilettos fell victim to Busta Sniff’s teeth) and not a peep from anyone else, so the sight of Harry Styles shimmying across the dancefloor is a welcome one.

“Harold!” he exclaims, pulling Harry into a hug. He smells school-boyishly of Lynx deodorant, and his jeans are too loose to flatter what Nick knows are shapely legs beneath. Nick clings to him for dear life until the next DJ arrives for her set at 1am. He’d been planning to stay out and dance a bit, but Harry’s still the only person he knows in the club, and he doesn’t owe the owner any favours at this point.

“Can I buy you a kebab and we’ll call it a night?” he asks, already reaching for his bag.

Harry looks around as though flustered by the invitation, as though it might be meant for someone else. But then he grins and says, “Sure,” and Nick leads him by the hand out of the club. Nick nearly gives the cab driver his address before he thinks better of it and lets Harry aim them towards the neighbourhood of his sad, anonymous flat.

The kebab shop is bustling with uni students and cab drivers, and Nick and Harry split a doner kebab on the damp kerb outside. It makes Nick feel younger and older at once, and he wonders whether Harry ever gets to have stupid teenage nights out, whether he’s ever stumbled out of a club wasted on Lambrini and made a spectacle of himself vomming in a gutter. Mostly Nick’s friends are past that age, mediocre kebab notwithstanding, and he doesn’t know who else Harry knows in London.

Harry’s giving him another of those shy, uncertain looks, like he’s not quite sure of his welcome. But this time Nick looks back long enough that Harry says, "I feel a bit weird about this. Do all your friends know? Like, that I paid you?" 

Nick shakes his head. "I never say who my clients are." 

Harry seems sort of comforted by that, but he carries on. "Is this weird for you though? Me being here, just like one of your mates?" 

Nick hasn't actually considered that it might be, because it's not like Harry's around because of him, but he's also never had cause to socialize with a client outside of their professional relationship. And it’s obvious Harry is putting way too much stock in whatever he says next. He nudges his elbow against Harry’s. "Nah, you're alright. I'm not working for you now. Look, I bought you this enduring symbol of our friendship.” He nods at their half-eaten kebab.

“Is it enduring if we eat it?”

“More enduring, really.”

When the kebab’s gone, Harry stutters out, “Can you get home okay? You could, like, stay at mine. If you like. On the sofa. It’s just over the road.”

Nick considers it, but Harry clearly needs it too much, still has something left to prove to himself. He hugs Harry outside the door to his building and gets a cab home, tries not to think about being an eighteen-year-old kid in a big city without any friends his own age.

 

Nick’s just spent more than 48 hours in the company of an extremely boring, extremely rich regular client who wasted nearly all of his weekend in Mykonos answering email while Nick sucked his dick, and all he wants to do is catch up on talent competition shows with Aimee and sulk about the lost tanning opportunity.

“ _The Voice_ is just never going to be as good as _X Factor_ ,” he sighs during an advert break. “There aren’t enough absolute nutters. And I don’t understand this boxing ring thing. Is this American?”

“You can’t blame Americans for everything,” Aimee tells him.

“It was American first, though, wasn’t it? I’m not blaming you personally.”

Aimee rolls her eyes and changes the subject. “Do you remember Harry on _X Factor_?”

“Harry wasn’t on _X Factor_. He’s one of those, like, YouTube kids. Like Justin Bieber.” Nick has watched a few of his videos, baby-faced Harry with a cloud of curly hair singing Coldplay songs before he started writing his own. He’s not sure he’s admitted that to Aimee.

“He got through to bootcamp two years ago. He says you can find his audition online now that he’s getting radio play.”

“I bet that was disgustingly charming.”

“Of course. He’s a disgustingly charming kid.”

Nick hesitates for a moment before he asks, “Does he have friends? Besides us lot. He always seems a bit isolated.”

“Ooh, and you’d like to keep him company, huh?”

Nick rolls his eyes. “Not like that. I just worry he’s imprinted like a baby duck.”

“I watched him put a hand up a girl’s shirt at a party the other night.”

“You went to a party without me?”

“You were in Mykonos. But he’s fine. He’s being properly socialized between obnoxious promo, and he’s got a top ten single.”

“Good,” says Nick, and he doesn’t say anything else about Harry because he’s tipsy enough on Aimee’s wine that he might start giving away trade secrets. Or at least the secret that his trade has involved Harry Styles. He wonders whether friends who’ve fooled around are this awkward, but he suspects not.

“He’s eighteen now,” Aimee says after a few minutes silence.

“Shut up,” Nick replies. He watches strangers singing on the telly and imagines Harry shaky and bright-eyed with nerves, wanting it this badly.

Aimee invites Harry to every single bloody thing all spring: dinners and gigs and picnics in the park once it’s warm enough, and it becomes absolutely relentlessly normal, like any other friendship, except for Aimee’s raised eyebrows that say that Nick should tap that. When Aimee’s about to disappear off to New York for three weeks in June to see her family, Harry says, “It’ll be strange not seeing you.”

They’re sat in the pub around the corner from Nick and Aimee’s flat on a Sunday afternoon. Harry is shamelessly stealing chips off Aimee’s plate while Aimee’s at the bar getting the next round. They’ve spent a fair bit of the afternoon assuring Harry that just because his second single has debuted at the sobering position of 39 in this week’s chart, it doesn’t mean his album’s about to get shelved.

“Who says you won’t see me?”

“We just don’t really hang out much, without Aimee or Pixie or Gelz or someone.”

“We could do. I could give you my number.”

Aimee reappears to set down three beers and slide her plate away from Harry’s grasping fingers.

“I have your number,” replies Harry.

Nick blinks and inclines his head towards Aimee. “Did you get it off this one? You’ve never texted or owt.”

Harry looks cagey. “I phoned once. A long time ago.”

And realisation hits Nick with a force that makes it hard to be nonchalant. “I think maybe you haven’t got the right number,” he says. “Give your phone here, I’ll sort it.” He deletes his professional number out of Harry’s phone and swaps it for his personal one. He doesn’t look at Aimee at all, but when Harry goes to the loo, she starts to ask him a question he cuts off.

“Don’t make it worse, alright?”

“We’ll talk later,” she replies ominously.

And true to her word, the minute the door to the flat closes, Aimee says, “Why does our sweet, impressionable young friend Harry have your professional number?”

“Well, he doesn’t anymore,” Nick points out. He’s never told Aimee who any of his clients were, and he’s meticulous about the confidentiality of his recordkeeping, but surely this is a special case. “You have to not make it weird for him.”

“But he hired you? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“Just once. Before you brought him out the first time.”

“That was months ago. You never even said you knew each other.”

“We didn’t! He hired me for one night, and I was sure I’d never see him again. We weren’t secretly betrothed or something.”

“So are you saying he’s awful in bed and you’d never betroth him or…?”

“I’m not saying a single bloody word about how he is in bed, for a start.”

“And he’s not even hot, right? So there’s no reason you’d want a repeat performance?”

“I certainly don’t want him to pay me for it again.” Nick feels odd when he thinks about just normal sex with Harry, just mates getting off together. Even though it would probably be nice. “I’ve never had someone go from client to friend. Client to friend to fuckbuddy would be worse.”

“He likes you though,” Aimee says, drawing out “likes” in that obnoxious American way. “I wondered why.”

“Hey!”

“But maybe he’s imprinted, like a baby duck. If you were his first.” She raises her eyebrows.

Nick frowns. “I keep my clients’ confidences. You could be feeding this information to _Heat_ magazine.”

“I would never. He is smitten though. Whatever you did to him, you did it good.”

“I’m a professional,” huffs Nick. But he knows she’s right. It’s the same thing he’s been thinking all along: Harry is probably looking for something Nick can’t give him.

 

It makes Nick hilariously awkward the next time they see each other a few days later. Nick keeps looking at Aimee, willing her not to watch him make a fool of himself. But she’s been distracted all night planning for her trip home, moaning that she shouldn’t be out, she should go pack until Nick offers to shove her in a cab himself. He’s barely managed to look at Harry all night, and it’s obvious Harry has noticed this too. Finally Nick says, “Alright, no point in sitting in a club watching Aimee stare at her Blackberry. Let’s be off home.”

Harry looks crestfallen. “Oh. I’ll just…”

“You come too,” Nick says decisively. He’s not even sure why, except that Harry deserves a better night than this.

“Are you sure?” Harry asks. He’s never been round theirs, and the thought of having him there makes Nick the slightest bit uneasy. Even after all this time, he’s not sure Harry doesn’t still think of himself as a client.

“Course,” says Nick. He slings one arm around Aimee and the other around Harry and ushers them out to the street.

“Our flat is a fucking mess,” Aimee tells Harry, most of her attention still on her phone as they squash into the middle seat of the cab.

“Only Aimee’s bits of it. My room is impeccable.”

“Just keep Harry there then while I pack.”

Harry ducks his head shyly, but it’s too dark to see if he’s blushing. “I live in a flat that’s basically a hotel for people whose record companies could still drop them any second. I can’t judge anyone.”

“They won’t drop you,” Aimee tells him. “Your first single sat in the top ten for a month, and you’re always nice and helpful about doing your promo. You’re a fucking dream.”

Harry scrubs a hand through his hair, pushing it into his face and then back again. “Okay,” he says, sounding young.

They all pile out of the cab in their quiet street, and Aimee swears under her breath as she fiddles with the Yale lock until Nick brushes her away. He pretends he doesn’t notice Harry watching his hands as he opens the door. They make a show of tiptoeing up the stairs, and Harry follows, groping in the dim light of the stairwell.

“The couple downstairs are about eight hundred years old and hate joy,” explains Aimee, ushering Harry into the flat and flipping on the overhead light in the lounge. “It’s why we’re out all the time.”

“Also we’re not exactly in the sort of jobs that let you work from home,” Nick adds. “At least not without added risk of being murdered.”

Harry goes wide-eyed and worried, his mouth turning down into a frown. Nick wants to say something snippy like, Well, you hired me! But he doesn’t. Harry’s barely old enough to have opinions about the legal realities of sex work, let alone apply any nuance to them. Then Harry shoves his hands into his pockets and says, “Maybe I should go,” and Nick realizes he’s got the wrong end of the stick.

“You’re our friend, idiot,” says Aimee breezily. “We trust you to be quiet and courteous in our home, so no one complains to the landlord. Nick will get you a drink, I’m gonna go shove some clean clothes in a suitcase. I’ll call when I need someone to sit on it.”

And with that it’s just them in the lounge, Harry still tensed for flight. “We’ve got beer, wine, and regrettably cheap vodka. What do you want?”

“Whatever’s easiest is fine,” says Harry.

Nick rummages in the fridge and opens him a beer, which Harry stares at for a minute before sipping. “Your flat is nice. Very… lived in.”

Nick cocks an eyebrow at him.

“When you live in a plain white box where you’re not allowed to hang stuff on the walls, believe me, it’s a compliment.”

They sit down on opposite ends of the sofa, and Harry clutches at a throw pillow, one arm awkwardly folded around it like he’s not sure what else to do with the hand that’s not holding his beer. And then because Nick’s a professional at battering down awkward silences, he starts to talk, telling Harry about the flat. “The previous tenants downstairs were students, or supposedly students. They didn’t actually seem to do much besides smoke weed and order pizzas at odd hours. I used to think you could get a contact high just standing in the stairwell. Obviously Aimee and I didn’t care, but then they set the curtains on fire and might have burned down the building.”

“That’s awful,” says Harry.

“It wasn’t that bad. Had some quite attractive firemen round checking the damage. And there was nothing structural.”

“So you’ve lived here quite a while?”

“Couple of years, yeah.”

“Do you think you’ll stay?”

“Long as the couple downstairs doesn’t report us for walking too loudly I reckon we will. You all set in your white box then?”

Harry bites his lip. “It’s just, like, for recording the album and stuff, and then I have to get a place of my own or go back up north and stay with my mum. Then I guess it’s hotels while the label sends me round on promo. I don’t really know after August.”

The thought of Harry leaving London hits Nick harder than expected. Harry’s been such an easy part of everyday life all spring. “You have any idea what you want to do?”

Harry gives a mournful little sigh. “No. If I can’t get better radio play or crack the top 20 on this stupid song, my album might still get shelved.”

“We went over this, didn’t we? They’ve already put in a deposit with renowned event planner Aimee Phillips for your launch party. And if the song doesn’t pick up, I’ll get one of my mates to put a donk on it and make it a London club hit. That should keep you in the good graces of them corporate types.”

“Would you like it if I stayed in London? After the album?” Harry asks, and Nick feels as though he’s walked straight into a trap.

He hesitates, watches Harry watching him for a moment. “Course I would. You’re a good mate, Harold.”

Harry smiles. “Good.” He runs his thumb along the seam of the pillow. “Have you been, um, in your line of work a long time?”

“The record-playing one or the fucking-people one? I’ve been playing records longer than I’ve been fucking people for money. But I’ve been fucking people for money for about five years. Sometimes it’s more of one and less of the other.”

“Do you ever, like, date anybody? Not for money, just, like, you like them?” Nick hears the real question underneath, but he’s not ready for it, so he answers the one Harry’s actually asked instead.

“Not much. Sometimes I meet people when I’m in clubs, but it’s so much worse having your date freak out because you’re a whore than just getting it over with in the first five minutes you’ve met. I had a sort of boyfriend a couple of years ago, but he was a bit too into my work, if you know what I mean. Wanted to get off on me fucking other people. And it seemed a bit mean, like he wanted my clients to be these weirdos he could look down on for being gross, but really he was gross himself.”

“I’m glad you stopped that then.”

“Yeah,” agrees Nick. He has a handful of funny date stories, or stories about dates that are funny with plenty of personal distance from them, but he isn’t totally sure if that would be helpful for Harry to hear. He isn’t even sure whether he should be encouraging Harry to date him or discouraging him from ever considering it again. “How’s dating now that you’re a popstar?”

“Dunno yet,” says Harry. “They warn you that, like, people are going to try to get off with you, but you have to be careful what you do in case they go to the tabloids about how you’re rubbish in bed.”

“Are you rubbish in bed?”

Harry raises his eyebrows. “You’d know as well as anyone.”

“You were lovely, but I’m guessing most people lobbing their numbers at you at promo gigs are ladies. I don’t know how you are with them.”

“I like to think I’m alright. But I haven’t, like, gone home with anyone in a while, just in case it’s not good.”

Nick grapples with the image of Harry sexually frustrated in a cage of his own making, and it doesn’t lead him anywhere good either. “I just get off with my mates,” Nick says, knowing he’s slipping, working himself deeper into the trap Harry’s laid. “When I want to be with someone who won’t turn out to be a twat six hours later.”

Harry takes a sip of his beer, pink lips clinging around the mouth of the bottle. “I still don’t know that many people in London. It’s mostly just you and your mates.”

Just then Aimee emerges from the hall saying, “Nick, have you seen my red sunglasses? I set them down somewhere, and since it isn’t constantly raining back home, I might need them.” And so Nick and Harry set about overturning the sofa cushions and Nick doesn’t say anything more about snogging your friends.

Aimee’s sunglasses are in her coat pocket, but by the time they discover that, it’s late, and Nick asks Harry to stay the night so he doesn’t have to get the night bus all the way home. “You can have the sofa or half of my bed,” Nick says. “But not Aimee’s because she has to leave at 5am or something awful.” Aimee is pulling faces behind Harry’s back and making obscene hand gestures. Nick carefully doesn’t look at her.

“How big’s your bed?” asks Harry.

“Double,” says Nick. “I could take the sofa as well, if you’d like the whole bed.” He doesn’t relish the thought of sleeping curled up on the sofa, but he’s fairly sure Harry won’t ask him to.

“Do you snore or anything?” Harry asks. “Or talk in your sleep?”

“I’ve never had any complaints,” Nick tells him.

“I’ll take the bed then. We can share.”

Nick shows Harry the bathroom and gives him a spare toothbrush, and when he comes back out to turn off the lights, Aimee’s still stood in the lounge, contemplating her suitcase by the door.

“Should I tell you it’s a bad idea because he’s at least a little in love with you?” she asks quietly.

“You’re being overdramatic,” Nick replies. The toilet flushes, and he doesn’t want to try to defend himself in the 30 seconds they likely have before Harry reappears. “We’ll probably just go to sleep.”

“Pretty sure that’s not what he wants.”

“Well, maybe’s it’s what I want.” He folds his arms stubbornly then has to unfold them to hug her. There’s no bloody way he’s getting up before dawn to see her off in the morning, and it’ll be strange without her around the flat. He’s got plenty of gigs lined up for the next couple of weeks, but not having someone to decompress with leaves him feeling incomplete.

Then Harry comes out of the bathroom in a t-shirt and pants, and Nick tries not to stare at his legs, imagining how it would feel to have them wrapped around his hips. Harry hugs Aimee with just his arms, not throwing his whole body into it like usual. Maybe that’s the being in pants thing. “See you in a couple of weeks, popstar,” she says, ruffling his hair. “Don’t let Nick talk you into anything crazy.”

Nick makes an offended and incredulous noise, but Aimee and Harry ignore him. As though Aimee doesn’t keep them out raving until nearly dawn without any of Nick’s help. He goes round passive-aggressively turning off the lights until they’re all stood in the dark.

“Point taken,” says Aimee. “Goodnight, children.”

Nick’s bed seems impossibly small with Harry in it, like there’s no way for them to coexist in it without constantly bumping elbows. Nick swallows the urge to apologise every time he shifts, but Harry is asleep almost immediately, looking angelic on Nick’s pillow. Nick doesn’t analyse the slight flicker of disappointment that he didn’t even have to rebuff Harry’s advances, or decide not to.

Harry’s absent when Nick wakes up, and Nick lies there for a minute, listening for the sounds of him in the flat, creaking floor boards and faint humming from down the hall. Nick fumbles for his glasses and stares blankly at his phone while his eyes focus. It’s just before ten. He wanders out still yawning and finds Harry obviously digging through the cupboards for tea while the kettle bubbles on the counter. “Behind the three bags of coffee I think we’ve got some Earl Grey we keep for guests,” Nick says.

Harry peers around the door, looking rumpled and incredulous, hair going every which way. “You don’t drink tea?”

Nick shrugs. “I live with an American. We have milk and sugar though. It’s not like we’re uncivilised.”

Harry smiles. “Do you have food as well? I didn’t snoop in your fridge yet.”

“I could probably do beans on toast. Or take you out.”

Harry’s eyes dip down, and Nick wonders if he could have phrased that better. “Do you have stuff to do?”

“Client in the afternoon,” Nick says casually, braced against Harry’s response. But Harry just nods.

“Is there time to go out? Do you have to, like, prepare?”

“It doesn’t take long,” Nick replies, scrubbing a hand through his hair and wondering how bad it is.

“You looked really good when you… when I hired you,” Harry says shyly. “Really put together and, like, nice.”

“Compared to now, you mean?” asks Nick, spreading his hands.

Harry’s eyes track down his body and then back up again, and he smiles, but it’s slightly flustered now. “You look nice now too. Just different.”

“Let’s go out. Full English for a growing boy sounds like just the thing. Get your clothes on, unless you want to borrow something of mine.”

“Could I have a shower too?” Harry asks.

“Course. Towels on the shelf in the bathroom. You can use Aimee’s body wash if you like. It’s pink.”

Nick gets dressed while Harry showers. He’ll have to clean up before his appointment this afternoon anyway, so it doesn’t much matter how he looks now. Through the bathroom door he can hear Harry singing, although he doesn’t recognise the song. Maybe it’s one off his upcoming album. Maybe Nick’s getting a preview of the next big thing in pop. So he pauses by the door to listen, but it’s distracting to imagine Harry showering. More distracting than it should be, really.

He wanders into the kitchen again, but the whole point of taking Harry for breakfast is that there’s no food in his actual house. When Harry reappears, he’s in his jeans from last night and nothing else. “Someone spilled something down the back of my t-shirt last night. I guess I just thought I was really sweaty.”

Nick hmms. “What’s it smell like?”

“Rum and coke, maybe? Or vodka and coke? Coke and alcohol. Why?”

“It’ll probably wash out, and at least it’s not vomit. I can chuck it in the washer while we go to eat if you like.”

“Yeah, thanks.” He gives Harry his Dr. Dre shirt in exchange for the crumpled dirty one from last night, and Harry pulls it on without even looking at it.

“How’s your hip hop trivia knowledge?” Nick asks.

Harry looks down at himself. “Pretty bad, if I’m honest. Should I wear something else?”

“Nah,” says Nick, liking how his t-shirt hangs on Harry’s gangly frame. “I’ll just have to teach you.”

“You’re good at that,” Harry says softly, and Nick is flustered into a second’s silence.

“We need breakfast,” he says, as though Harry isn’t bringing up things he shouldn’t before Nick’s even had coffee.

The little café around the corner is quick and cheap, and it’s full of the regular bleary student crowd, grunting over bacon. The tables are so close together that Harry and Nick are crammed in with their knees touching out of necessity.

Harry and Nick both order the same thing, but Harry apparently likes his yolks runnier than Nick does, smearing everything all together in the middle of his plate and scooping forkfuls onto his toast. He eats with his tongue first, curling it out of his mouth before the fork reaches, and Nick’s noticed it before, but usually there's at least someone else nearby to keep conversation going. Nick hasn’t really taken Harry out anywhere, just them, just this. He cuts his sausage into tiny bits and doesn't think about the fact that's he's had Harry’s mouth around his dick. Or at least he tries not to.

Harry phones up two afternoons later, sounding a bit anxious, and Nick pushes aside his monthly accounting to speak to him. He didn't feel like dealing with invoices anyway. “Everything alright, love? You sound stressed.” He's fully ready to offer a drink or a listening ear. 

“Yeah,” says Harry. “Everything's good. I just. I was thinking, and I wanted to ask you. No pressure. But I really like you, and I think, if it would be alright, I'd like to take you out sometime. Maybe Friday? Like, tomorrow? Dinner?”

Nick’s heart stumbles in his chest. He hadn't thought Harry would be so bold. “I really appreciate the offer, but I'm working tomorrow night. Unless you'd want to come.”

Harry’s shocked exhalation is unmistakable.

“DJing. I'm DJing tomorrow night. And you could come as my guest?” It's another dodge in a series of dodges, but it’s better than a conversation Nick is probably too weak willed for.

Harry makes a small thoughtful noise, and Nick thinks for a moment he might actually say no. But then he doesn’t. “Yeah, that'd be nice too.” And Nick’s averted a Conversation for another day. 

Harry stays in the booth with him practically all night, and Nick keeps wanting to touch him and then holding back. He's tipsy and overly warm, and he probably shouldn't let himself get drawn in just because Harry is right there, flushed and laughing. He explains how his decks work this time, although he still won't let Harry touch. Like they're really an extension of himself. 

But then he's packing up and somehow he can't send Harry home. So he hands over his laptop bag and says, “You're filling in for Aimee tonight, come on.”

Harry grins. “Can I have a wig? Or some acrylic nails?”

“You should express yourself however you feel like, Harold,” he says, but he feels a bit sick about it when a bored looking pap outside the club snaps Harry’s picture.

Harry waves in a familiar way that only makes it worse. 

“I didn't think you were quite at that level,” Nick says. 

“Usually they only take my picture if they're killing time waiting for someone off of Made in Chelsea. I don't think anyone buys them.”

Nick has let it slip from his mind a bit, that the whole reason he and Harry met in the first place was because his label was worried about him being alienatingly gay. Harry seems so at ease when they're out, even though Nick must be risky company for someone like him. And it's not as though Nick can just stop doing what he does. He doesn't have the kind of skills to let him hand wave the rest of his life in order to be the right sort of company for an up and coming popstar. “You sound as though you don't mind it,” Nick says. 

“Minding it doesn't change anything. I'd rather be nice to them now than have them start hounding me all the time if I get more well known. I sort of hope it'll make things easier later. If they think of me more like a person now.”

Nick doesn't know any paps personally, but he's done business with enough minor celebrities to know they can be ruthless, even to kind people just trying to live their lives. Nick’s never been visible enough to be a liability, but he knows he could be with the right tip to the wrong person. He doesn't want Harry to need to find out about that.

They arrive back at the flat after three, and Nick should shepherd Harry to the night bus stop and have done with it, but he doesn't. “Are you knackered?” Nick asks, stood in the kitchen doorway with Harry looking speculatively at him.

“No,” says Harry. “I'm alright. I just. Can I talk to you for a minute? Honestly?”

“Of course.”

Harry steps up too close, and Nick doesn't want to push him away. “Look, I think you know, but I. I really wanted a proper date. I love going out with you when you're DJing. But I wanted to take you to dinner and buy you flowers.”

“I have hayfever.”

“You know what I mean though. Right? You know what I want?”

Nick reaches out for him, touches his shoulder in a gentle squeeze. He's hanging onto calm with his fingernails. “I'd like that. But you have to know. I'm still a prostitute. You have to understand what you're doing. And what you're not doing. You're not saving me from anything. You're not teaching me to love.”

“You already know how to love,” says Harry. “You love Aimee. You were kind to me even when it was just business. You have a good heart.”

Nick swallows his smile because Harry sounds so solemn. “Thanks, Haz. That's sweet.”

“I know I don't need to teach you anything. But I like you so much. And I know I'm not in an ideal position, but you were the first person to tell me it didn't have to be like my label wanted it. And that meant something.”

Nick's had clients claim they were in love with him before, mostly young ones who could mistake kindness and professionalism for personal affection in a time of crisis. He doesn't want that from Harry. “It doesn't have to be me though. Just because I said it.”

“Don't tell me it could be anyone. Please. You're my friend. I'm not just… Throwing myself at you because I paid you for sex once. It's everything since then that makes me want you.”

Nick is still touching him, a single burning point of contact, so it's easy to slide his hand over Harry’s shoulder and curl it around the back of his neck. Harry's breath stutters, and he closes his eyes, like he thinks Nick might kiss him. Nick wants to kiss him. But he doesn't yet. He hasn't kissed Harry since that night in December, and the memory of it is vague now, but still sweet. “I haven't been anyone's boyfriend in a long time,” Nick says. “I don't really know how to go on dates.”

“Then I'll show you,” says Harry. “I just won't bring flowers. And maybe, like, you can show me other things.” He tilts his chin up, offering his mouth, and this time Nick does kiss him, gently, cupping the back of Harry's head and holding onto his curls. Not pulling, although he remembers Harry liking that, but keeping him in place. He doesn't think they're going to have sex tonight, although Harry clings to him eagerly, pushing him into the kitchen doorway, hanging onto his shoulders.

“Let's try this someplace a little more comfortable,” Nick says, pulling away, and Harry’s eyes light up. “Although you haven't taken me out yet, so I'm not sure what you're expecting.”

Nick means it as a tease, but Harry frowns. “I'm not expecting anything. I just want you. However you like it.”

Nick kisses the corner of his mouth before pulling away again. “Come on.”

It's clear in every line of Harry's body that he expects to be taken to bed, but Nick isn't quite ready for that yet. He steers Harry to the sofa instead. And even there, Harry sprawled out all long and easy is like temptation itself. Nick could just ravish him right here, and Harry certainly would be getting what he came for. But Harry is so young, and whatever resolve he’s found right now may shift. So Nick just lays him out and kisses him, bringing their bodies in close on the sofa.

Harry makes sweet, plaintive noises as he’s kissed, dragging Nick in until they’re pressed together head to toe. Their legs tangle, and Nick doesn’t want to use any of his suave professional moves to make this easier. But at the same time, he’d like to hitch Harry’s legs up around his waist and fuck him hard. And it’s obvious that Harry wants that too, the way he spreads his legs and arches against the growing weight of Nick’s cock. Like Nick could slip right into him given the chance, even though that’s something Nick knows he’s never done before.

Nick’s never really gotten off on inexperience, on the tentative fumbling that comes from not having learnt something yet, but he sort of likes the way Harry wants things he hasn’t done. There’s a guileless sort of hedonism to it, and Nick is sorely tempted to give him everything right now. He’s never needed a date to precede sex, and Harry is biting his lip and moaning as he rocks his hips against Nick’s. That big dick Nick remembers is filling out the front of Harry’s jeans, solid and hot against Nick’s belly. “Are you going to come for me, love?” Nick asks. “Is that what you want?”

Harry gasps and goes still. “No,” he murmurs, but it’s uncertain, like he might want to take it back. Nick presses his mouth to Harry’s throat and feels him swallow. “I don’t want it like this.”

Nick sits up, dragging himself off Harry reluctantly. “Anything you like,” says Nick. “Do you want to go home?”

Harry cups a hand over his dick, petting at it like he can soothe it into behaving. “I don’t know.” He lets his dick go and drapes his hand off the edge of the sofa. “No. I don't want to go. But I. I want you to know it’s not just sex. I don't just want sex. I want it to be different.”

Nick winds one of Harry's messy curls around his finger. “It's already different though, isn't it love? This isn't how it would be if you hired me again. This is me and my friend Harry.”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, tipping his head towards Nick’s hand. “But isn't it weird?”

Nick has tried so bloody hard not to make it weird. “If it's weird, we shouldn't do it. I usually don't. I usually wouldn't even try.” It hits him suddenly, how much he cares, how much he wants to keep Harry, however he can. He had somehow convinced himself this wasn’t such a big deal, just a thing they could be practical about, with his friend Harry who wanted to take him to dinner. But it’s not like that at all really. It’s not nearly that simple.

“You wouldn’t?”

“I told you, I don’t do boyfriends anymore. I don’t go on dates. I don’t do any of this.”

Harry’s eyes go helpless, his mouth slack and still so ready to kiss. “You don’t have to. I’m sorry.”

Nick takes a breath, tries again. “I think you’re wonderful, and I’m glad to have you take me for dinner and whatever else you like. But I can’t tell you the right thing to do about dating because I haven’t a bloody clue.”

“Okay,” says Harry. Then again more decisively. “Okay. We can figure it out, right? Because we know each other and that should make it easier. And we’ve already had sex, so it probably won’t be awful and awkward.”

“Well,” says Nick, and Harry stutters to a stop. “It’s all right if it’s awkward though, yeah? Because we know each other, and we can always change our minds. We can play Scrabble or summat.”

“Yeah! I’m sick at Scrabble.” Of course he is. His family probably does crosswords together as well.

“Okay, maybe not Scrabble then. I never know if things are real words or if people just say them and they’re not at all.”

“My family’s really into Scrabble. We play whenever I go home. My sister’s loads better than I am though. I only feel good about it when I play with other people. I think I’m ace when I play with other people.”

“Do you make it home often? Keep your skills sharp?” Nick makes a joke of it, but he’s jolted into remembering how young Harry is, how recently he left school to be a popstar.

“Not as often as my mum would like,” Harry says, and Nick echoes his smile. It’s a universal truth about mums that they want you home more. “My sister’s off at uni, and I don’t think she expected me to go as well so soon. She phones every few days.”

Nick wants to ask what Harry will say about him, if anything, given his hardly reputable line of work. Would his mum need to know? If they go on a proper date, will Harry phone his mum afterward to tell her about it?

“When was the last time you went back?”

“A couple of months, maybe. It’s just different, isn’t it? And my friends from school always tease me about losing my accent or coming home liking all strange food, and I think about that, about what it is that, like, defines you as a person. I go to members-only clubs now with people older than me and drink posh cocktails. I hired a prostitute once.”

Nick’s never bothered to wonder if Harry had the sort of crisis of conscience that he knows is not uncommon among his clients. Harry had seemed so confident, so sure of his goal, that Nick thought he’d done all his soul searching in advance, that the whole mess of feelings after would have been avoided if they hadn’t become friends. “Did that change your definition of yourself as a person?” he asks, stroking Harry’s hair back from his face.

Harry shakes his head, nuzzling into Nick’s hand. “I just felt a bit lost afterwards. You were right about everything you said, and I wondered if I’d done the right thing, or if I should have just said fuck the label and shagged someone in a club.”

“I have it on good authority that I’m better than your average wasted bloke in a toilet. You paid for quality.”

“I know. I know it wouldn’t have been as good. Someone like that wouldn’t have been as careful with me as you were. But like, would it have been more authentic? Would it have been more like me? I don’t know. I never told anyone back home I might like boys. I guess that wasn’t very authentic either.”

“It’s hard though, having to tell people. I don’t blame anyone for not doing it. And anyway, whose business is it except someone you’re sleeping with?”

“I don’t know. It just doesn’t seem right, not telling. When people care about you and they ask if you’re seeing someone, you have to say something. Like, you either have to lie or you have to tell the truth. If your mum asks, you can’t just tell her to piss off.”

“Well, you could, technically. But you have to figure that out, one way or the other. And that’s going to be different, depending on what your mum’s like, what your friends are like.”

“I don’t know if I want to know. If they wouldn’t like it, I don’t know if I’m okay finding that out. But my mum, I think she’d be alright. And then I think she’d want to know about you. If we’re, like, dating.”

Nick feels slightly sick as he considers what Harry might say about him. Possibly the best part of not dating anymore is not having to confront what anyone’s mum thinks of his profession. Except his own, and she’s had years to make her peace with it. He doesn’t say anything for so long that Harry clears his throat in the silence.

“We don’t have to talk about mums right now. We could just… go to bed. If I could stay the night. If you wanted.”

“No sex though?”

“Not tonight. I want to take you out, properly. I don’t want it to be like your job.”

“I do go out with people for my job though,” Nick says gently. “You shouldn’t think it’s dinner that will make the difference. It’s you that makes the difference.”

Harry kisses him. “Let me do it anyway. Someplace really nice. You can wear a suit. Obviously you’ve got a suit.”

“I’ve got loads of suits. I’m very stylish.”

“Course you are.” He licks his lips, sitting up properly. “Can we go to bed now?”

“Yeah. Let’s go to bed.”

They brush their teeth side by side in the bathroom, and Nick can feel Harry’s eyes on him in the mirror even though he stares resolutely at the picture of David Bowie on the wall beside it. He can’t help thinking about Harry’s mouth, lush and toothpaste-cool, but he’s not sure whether Harry’s going to stay at arm’s length tonight.

Nick watches Harry undress in the dim light of the bedside lamp. His hair is all fluffed up in the back where Nick’s fingers have tangled it, and his skin is pale and smooth all over. He’s wearing grey briefs that only emphasize the rise of his cock and the little wet spot smeared over the front. Nick doesn’t do the kind of striptease he would do for a client, just pushes down his jeans and slides into bed in his t-shirt and pants.

“Is it okay if I sleep like this?” Harry asks, crossing his arms over his bare belly.

“As long as you’re warm enough,” Nick replies.

“Do you have a policy on cuddling?”

“Professionally or with my dear friend Harry?”

“With your dear friend Harry who might get cold in the night.”

Nick fiddles with his hair and decides to be honest. “I’m not very good at it whilst I’m sleeping,” he admits. “I’ll do a bit of spooning, but then I get too hot and have to roll myself off to the other side of the bed. I do it for clients, but I don’t sleep much then.”

“What about just until I fall asleep?” Harry asks, stepping gingerly towards the bed.

“That sounds perfect, love. Come here now.”

Harry fits nicely into his arms, tucking his head under Nick’s chin. He presses a kiss to Nick’s collarbone, and Nick knits his fingers together at Harry’s waist. Harry’s still hard, and Nick holds carefully still, taking steady breaths as he waits to see whether Harry wants to do anything about that.

“You seem tense,” Harry murmurs.

Nick shifts his thigh, making Harry gasp. “ _You_ seem tense.”

“It’ll go down. I don’t really mind it.”

“Do you like waiting? Teasing yourself?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I do. I can try it and see.” He’s so matter of fact about it, like he was the night they met, wanting to sample all the things sex has to offer him. “Maybe I’ll try not to come until after our proper date.”

Nick swallows. “You don’t know when that’s going to be yet.”

“Just an incentive to make it sooner.”

Nick doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just kisses the top of Harry’s head and reaches out to turn off the lamp.

 

It’s too early when Nick wakes up to the sound of someone else’s phone, and he blinks his eyes hard, trying to locate himself in time and space. And then there’s Harry’s hushed voice saying, “Yeah, I’ll be there by ten. Okay, thanks.”

Nick makes a generic questioning noise without opening his eyes again.

“I’m meeting my agent,” says Harry, already bustling around the room. “It was supposed to be this afternoon, but she had to reschedule. I’m sorry to be a pain. Do you have a shirt I could borrow? Something, like, vaguely nice?”

Nick fumbles his glasses off the bedside table and puts them on. “Anything in the wardrobe there is clean. There should be something that’ll work for popstarring.”

Harry grins. He picks out an orange and white striped button down, too light for the weather, but he’ll have his coat. “Is this all right?”

It’s a little wrinkled, but it fits nicely across his shoulders, loose but not too loose. “You’re bloomin’ gorgeous.”

Harry’s smile turns shyer. “Thanks. I have to go. But I could come back? Or you could meet me somewhere? Or we could just… not, if that’s easier?”

“I’ve got a client tonight, but why don’t we plan for your fancy dinner date tomorrow, all right? If you can find a place you want to go then?”

“That’s soon,” says Harry. He glosses straight over Nick’s mention of a client without flinching.

“Is it too soon?”

“Not too soon. The sooner the better, from my perspective.”

Nick suddenly remembers that he’d offered not to come until after their date, and he’s not awake enough to process that properly in daylight. “Good. Text me time and place.”

Harry kisses him on the cheek and darts away, which would be fine except that Nick has to follow after to fumble with the sticky lock on the door to the flat. “See you later,” says Harry, going shy in the hallway outside.

“Have a good day,” says Nick, and doesn’t kiss him again. He thinks about going back to bed once Harry’s gone, but he’s too awake for it now, so he tidies a bit and checks his professional email and voicemail. There’s nothing urgent; he’s mostly booked for the next few weeks, and what gaps there are in his schedule are intentional. He responds to a few inquiries about his rates and answers a thank you note from a new client who promises to keep him in mind for future events.

And when all that’s done, he spends an hour staring at the suits in his closet, taking out jackets and comparing the colors and cuts against his body. He knows he can wear a suit well, but he doesn’t really know Harry’s tastes yet. Harry’s a kid who’s undoubtedly had a fair number of free clothes thrust at him, but he’s also learning about fashion from Nick’s friends, who care a great deal about things like originality. Nick wants to look good for him, but not like he does as a stranger’s date to the opera, and he has no idea if Harry will know the difference.

 

Nick doesn’t hear anything from Harry the rest of the day except a text with the name of a restaurant Nick’s never been to followed by “8pm tomorrow xx”. He’s about to reply when he gets a message from Aimee that says “HE’S TAKING YOU TO DINNER???” and Nick realises how Harry has better culinary intel than he does.

Nick tries to think of a witty reply, but he’s panicking a little. “Can I phone you?” he texts back. His phone is ringing about ten seconds later.

“I cannot believe you asked him out,” Aimee says, and it echoes a little, but it’s basically remarkably clear considering there’s an ocean between them. “You! On a date! With an actual living breathing person who isn’t paying you!”

“I didn’t ask him,” says Nick. “He asked me. He sort of… talked me into it. Christ, Aimee, there was so much talking. I had to talk about feelings.”

“You have some?”

“Unfortunately.” He tugs at a loose thread on the arm of the sofa. “I seem to even have some for him.”

“Oh Nick,” she says. “You’re so bad at this. How can you be so well socialised and so bad at this?”

“Because socializing isn’t feelings. I like him. I really actually like him. How can I go out with someone I actually like?”

“Look, babe, I’m all for melodrama, but this is still Harry we’re talking about. He did the Spice Girls’ entire first album at karaoke, and he tells knock-knock jokes when he’s drunk. He’s not cooler than you are.”

“It wasn’t the entire album.”

“Nick.”

Nick rubs his hand across his face. He’s meeting a client in three hours and he’s still fixated on a date that isn’t happening for another twenty-eight. “Where’s he taking me?”

“It’s just a restaurant. East London, small, not someplace people go to be seen. The carbonara’s great.”

“I am not eating carbonara on a date.”

“A date with _Harry_. If you can split a kabob with somebody at 2am, you can eat carbonara in front of them.”

“I’ll be wearing a suit. God, Aimee, what the bloody hell do I wear?”

“Wear that blue plaid one that makes you look really rich and eccentric.”

“Do I want to look eccentric?”

“He’s seen you naked, do you think he’ll care?”

“No.”

“Exactly. Blue suit, carbonara, keep a stain stick in your pocket if you need to. Tell him he looks nice. Which he will, but he’ll be as nervous as you are.”

Nick takes a deep breath. “Right. Okay. Good. Thanks.”

“Anytime, pal. Is that all?”

“How’s America?”

“Hot, humid. My parents send their love. I think I’ll be ready to leave by next week.”

“Good. I need you.”

“You can fuck Harry all over the flat until I get home.”

It’s a good thought, Nick has to admit.

 

He walks past the restaurant three times because the sign is in such elaborate script it’s unreadable. It doesn’t bode particularly well for the inside, but when Nick opens the door, it’s sparkling with candles on the tables and it smells heavenly. As his eyes adjust, he can see Harry waving from a table near the back, and Nick can’t tell what he’s wearing, but Nick’s blue suit already feels frivolous. Still Harry’s smiling, beckoning him to sit down.

“Hi,” Harry says brightly. He’s wearing a dark suit jacket and a paisley shirt that somehow suits him perfectly. “You look amazing! Did you get here alright?”

“Hiya,” Nick replies. “I took a cab. I always feel overdressed in a suit on the bus. Our Aimee’s found a right nice spot here.”

“She told you she picked?”

“You told her you were taking me on a date. You sort of gave the game away there.”

Harry ducks his head. “I didn’t think it was a secret, not from Aimee.”

“It’s not. Of course it’s not. She just phoned me after she spoke to you. She was excited. I’m excited too.”

Harry smiles. “Yeah. It’s a nice place, right?”

“Definitely. And the company can’t be beat.”

It seems as though Harry doesn’t know what to say to that. He picks up the wine list placed between them on the table. “Do you want wine? I don’t know anything about it, but I thought you might.”

Nick nods. “A bit. More than I did at your age, anyway. What do you like?”

“I don’t know. Anything you like is fine.”

A waitress comes by with menus and sparkling water before Nick can start talking rubbish about wine, and as soon as he looks at the food, he’s starving. “Do you want a starter?”

“Anything you like. I’m easy.”

Nick lifts his eyebrows just slightly, and Harry grins. Nick orders them bruschetta and a bottle of red, and then he watches Harry fidget with the cuffs of his jacket while he inspects the menu.

“I can’t believe you actually wore a suit,” says Nick, and Harry looks up in surprise.

“I just wanted to look nice. I wanted you to take me seriously.”

“When don’t I?” Nick asks, and now would be such a good moment to take his hand across the table, but Nick is the very soul of discretion when it’s required, and it’s almost definitely required with Harry.

“Ever,” says Harry, but he’s smiling. His foot nudges Nick’s under the table and Nick nudges back.

They eat their bruschetta and order their pasta—spinach ravioli for Harry and carbonara for Nick—and Harry’s toes wander up Nick’s ankle while he talks about the radio tour he’s about to embark on.

“You’re becoming a proper popstar. There’ll be people throwing underwear at you outside every one of those places, I reckon.”

“Better underwear than rotten fruit. I don’t feel ready for it. I haven’t done many live interviews before. What if I fuck up?”

“Start with not saying ‘fuck’. That’ll keep you on the air a bit longer.” 

“I won’t mention you,” says Harry, and it’s so out of the blue that Nick nearly chokes on a bit of tomato.

“Why would you?” he says through a cough.

“Same reason we’re out at dinner. But I just. Whatever I think about people advising me I can’t like blokes, I don’t want to talk about it on the radio.”

“Understood, love. You do whatever you need.”

“Do you think about what it would have been like if I hadn’t hired you? Like, what your first impression would have been?”

“It would’ve been ogling your arse with Daisy and Pix at Groucho. It’s a pretty nice one, I think you would have done alright.”

“It was weird seeing you there. But I liked it. It made me feel weird thinking I wouldn’t see you again too.”

“You said you’d send me your single.”

“Yeah, but that’s, like, what you say, isn’t it? So many people said they’d like a copy, but it’s just the nice thing to say, when someone’s putting out a single, right?”

“A bit,” agrees Nick, but it’s so long ago now that he can’t retrace his own motivations. Harry had been a client. “I like to show an interest in the people who hire me, if they seem inclined to talk. But I liked hearing your song on the radio. I had a second of, like, ‘I know him!’ even though I didn’t yet.”

“I nearly pissed myself the first time I heard it,” Harry says. “It didn’t seem real. It still doesn’t quite.”

“That’s almost exactly what you should say on the radio except ‘pissed’ is right out.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah. They’ll probably have a list of swears hung up somewhere just so you stare at them and all you think about is not saying ‘tits’.”

Obviously the waiter arrives with their food at exactly that moment, and Harry dissolves into giggles, dimpled grin in the candlelight making him look very young but also stunningly gorgeous. Nick wants to make him laugh like that some more, wants to take him home and kiss him nearly as much.

“Please talk about swears some more. Maybe he’ll come back and offer us dessert.”

“Shut up and eat your ravioli, Harry.” But Nick can’t keep the smile off his face.

Nick manages to eat dinner without spilling carbonara down his shirt, and he only chances feeding Harry from his fork once, but the pull of his lips is compelling. They look at each other across the table and Nick can feel Harry thinking the same thing he is. They skip dessert.

“We could get a cab,” says Nick. He knows there’s a bus stop within five minutes’ walk, but the thought of spending half an hour rumbling circuitously through east London with Harry’s thigh pressed to his is more than he can bear.

“Please,” says Harry, softly, and Nick wonders how little it would take to make him beg for real.

 

By the time they’ve tiptoed up the stairs to Nick’s flat, Nick’s in his head a bit, wondering where to begin with Harry as he coaxes the bolt on the door open. He turns to ask, and Harry kisses him, practically lunging into his arms. Nick almost swallows his gum and gently, gently presses his mouth to the corner of Harry’s before pulling back.

“We’ve got all night, love,” Nick tells him, sneaking his hands in under Harry’s jacket and making little fingertip circles at the small of Harry’s back. “How many times do you think you can come in eight hours? We don’t have to do it all at once.”

Harry takes a deep, shaky breath. “I’ve been thinking about it for so long.” He smoothes his hands down Nick’s chest.

“What do you want to do first?” Nick asks. “Whatever you want.”

“Naked. I want you naked. And me also naked. And touching. I want a lot of touching.”

Nick starts undressing him immediately, strewing their clothes down the hall because fuck it, Aimee won’t be back for days, that’s plenty of time to find Harry’s pants after he’s tossed them fully across the room.

Harry’s desperately hard, pressing against Nick’s thigh, rubbing himself there as Nick tugs at his hair, kissing him again and again. He isn’t using his seductive professional tricks this time, just losing himself in the softness of Harry’s mouth, the way he clings to Nick’s shoulders as Nick guides him to the bedroom.

He put clean sheets on the bed this morning, imagining Harry laid out naked on them, but the reality is even better. Harry spreads his arms like he’s making a snow angel, stretching himself across the full width of the bed. Nick steps out of his pants and settles himself along Harry’s side. Harry turns to kiss him, slow, considering.

“Can I blow you?” Harry asks. “I keep thinking about it. I keep remembering how it felt.”

Nick puts a hand down low on his belly, watching his cock twitch. “Do you want me to do something with this first? You’ve been waiting so patiently.”

Harry shuts his eyes, arching into Nick’s touch. “It won’t take much,” he whispers, and Nick reaches down to wrap a hand around him. Harry whimpers and his dick flexes in Nick’s gentle grip. The head is slick, and Nick thumbs over the leaking slit, Harry’s breath going uneven as he presses a little there. He tightens his fingers on the shaft, gives a couple of dry strokes, and Harry’s thighs tremble. He’s gorgeous holding himself back, but Nick knows he’ll be gorgeous giving in too.

“You don’t have to wait anymore, sweetheart. This is just the beginning, yeah? Let me see you come.”

And Harry does, as though the words themselves are enough for him. His hips tip up and he comes in long spurts over his own chest as Nick strokes him through it, keeping his hand tight on Harry’s dick until he relaxes into the bed, shaky and pliant.

“Still want to blow you,” Harry murmurs, slitting one eye open to glance at Nick, whose dick is still hard and heavy between his legs. “Can I do it like this?”

Nick hesitates. “It’s not the easiest angle. It won’t give you a lot of control.”

“But you’ll stop if I don’t like it?”

“Of course, love.” Nick knees his way up the bed until he’s straddling Harry’s chest, looking down at the soft openness of Harry’s mouth.

Harry adjusts the pillow under his head, then leans up to kiss the shaft of Nick’s cock, pulling Nick forward a little with a hand on his lower back. When Nick guides himself into Harry’s mouth, Harry shuts his eyes and opens to it, sucking gently at the head, lips wrapped over his teeth.

“Deeper?” asks Nick, and Harry gives a single little nod. Nick presses deeper into his mouth, Harry’s tongue wriggling against the underside of his cock as he adjusts. He tilts his head, tentatively, and Nick slides his fingers into Harry’s hair, holding him in place but not so Harry couldn’t pull away if he wanted. He braces his other arm against the wall, and Harry looks up. “I’m going to go really slow, all right? You just keep breathing, and pinch me if you want to stop.”

He thrusts into Harry’s mouth just once, nudging forward and then pulling back, Harry’s lips tugging at him. His teeth graze, and he makes a worried little noise, but the hum of it tingles right down to Nick’s balls. Harry’s mouth firms up around him as he figures out how to suck at this angle, his cheeks hollowing, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration. When Nick starts fucking his mouth with slow rolls of his hips, Harry moans and grabs at Nick’s arse, letting Nick in as deep as he can. He’s enthusiastic, almost greedy for Nick’s cock, swallowing wetly around it, testing the limits of his gag reflex as Nick fucks into him. His cheeks are stained pink, and Nick closes his eyes as his determination not to come in Harry’s mouth without asking is tested. He’s close now, tensed on the brink of orgasm, and Harry just keeps urging him forward, fingers curled into the cheeks of his arse.

He pulls himself free of Harry’s mouth, and Harry gasps at the loss, looking up at Nick with dazed, desperate eyes. “Come back,” Harry whispers hoarsely, and Nick rubs the head of his cock against Harry’s swollen lips.

“You don’t have to swallow,” Nick says, but Harry’s already taking him in again, eyes defiant as they meet Nick’s.

Nick gives him what he’s asking for, thrusting forward and spilling over Harry’s swirling tongue. He expects Harry to pull away, but Harry just grips tighter to his arse, sucking down every last drop of Nick’s come, sucking until Nick starts to go soft in his mouth. And Nick’s not one for overstimulation, normally, but Harry’s face is blissful, so he fists his hand in Harry’s hair and bears it until Harry turns away and takes a deep breath.

Nick’s knees are watery and he collapses beside Harry at once, drawing him into a sloppy kiss. “You’re quite something,” Nick tells him, biting at the swell of his lower lip.

“How soon can you go again?” Harry asks, turning onto his side to rub his already hard dick against Nick’s thigh.

“Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty. You think you can hold out that long?”

“I think I can kiss you for that long. If that’s okay?” The way he shifts between wanton and hesitant still worries Nick a little, as though there are lines Harry’s worried about crossing that Nick can’t even see.

“I like kissing you,” Nick tells him. “I could do it for ages. Just look at that mouth.”

Harry smiles. “I feel like you ask other people what they want a lot, and maybe no one asks you as often.”

“That’s true,” Nick agrees. “But I don’t mind it. And this is new for you, so you’ve got to have a chance to sort it out. I like helping you sort it out.”

“So there’s nothing you want in particular?”

Nick thinks on it for a moment. “All of this is what I want. You and me and a whole night together. I can’t think of anything nicer.”

Harry opens his mouth to say something, but then he kisses Nick instead, gentle and insistent. Nick holds onto his hair and kisses him back, kisses him until he has to pull away to take a deeper breath and start all over again. He slides his mouth to the lobe of Harry’s ear, bites down there and makes Harry moan, one of Harry’s legs curling over Nick’s hip so that Harry’s erection presses right up against Nick’s belly. Nick kisses down the tensed column of Harry’s neck and sucks at the ridge of his collarbone, not hard enough to leave a mark. His dick starts to perk up again as he returns to Harry’s lips, the stuttering motion of Harry’s hips rubbing him just right.

“Is this good?” Harry says, rocking into him with more purpose.

“Grand,” says Nick, catching his mouth again and sucking at his lower lip. Harry murmurs something else, and Nick pulls back to catch it. “Hmm?”

“I want you to fuck me,” Harry whispers. “I want that so much.”

Nick strokes a hand down his back, straight into the crack of his arse, and Harry sighs as Nick touches the tight little furl of his hole with one fingertip.

“I thought about asking you to, when I hired you. But it seemed like too much.”

“Too much?”

“I don’t know. I thought about having someone in me like that, looking at them while they were in me, and then they’d just leave. And I do it with my fingers sometimes, and I feel it after, and I wouldn’t want to feel it after if they were gone. It seemed lonely.”

Nick’s heart clenches with some unexpected mix of emotion. “It’s my flat. So chances are good that I’ll stay.”

Harry laughs and nuzzles at Nick’s mouth. “I’m glad.”

He fingers Harry for ages with his best lube, and at first he’s inclined to talk, to educate, like he would with a client who hadn’t been fucked before, but Harry doesn’t need that from him. He needs to be kissed instead, needs to look into Nick’s face and be told how good he is and how much Nick likes him. And Nick likes him so much. 

He works two slick fingers up to the knuckle in Harry’s hole, makes Harry tremble and clench and say “please”, and when he finally rolls on a condom and presses his dick into Harry, it’s almost easy, the fluttering muscle of Harry’s arsehole letting him in deep. Harry shifts, arches into him and settles back, and Nick kisses the tip of his nose when he looks up. Harry’s smile is almost shy.

Having come once, Nick can fuck him slow and lazy and deep, Harry’s thighs tight around his hips as Harry gets close. He drinks in the surprised little sounds Harry makes as he’s fucked, the way his eyes squeeze shut and he pushes back to take more of Nick’s cock inside. It’s a kind of sex Nick hasn’t had in a while, almost leisurely as he watches Harry come apart under him. He doesn’t expect Harry to come untouched, but then his eyes fly open and he gives a startled yelp, spurting across his belly, every inch of his body tensing against and around Nick’s.

Nick holds himself still but doesn’t pull out.

“I didn’t think that would happen,” Harry says shakily. “Don’t stop.”

He’s still trembling when Nick starts fucking him again, moving a little faster now, chasing his own orgasm. When he knows he’s close, he rocks himself deep in Harry’s arse and closes his eyes, riding it out. He kisses Harry through the awkward moment of pulling out, and when he’s tossed the condom and come back to bed, Harry wraps around him like a koala.

“This is a good date,” Harry says, without even a hesitant little question at the end, and Nick kisses his forehead.

“Brilliant,” he agrees.

 

[Two Months Later]

Harry’s album launch party is loud and crowded and an unquestionable success. Nick watches Harry mix and mingle, his smile radiant. He seems so honestly, generously interested in every single person there. Aimee pours him another glass from the magnum of champagne she’s commandeered.

“I’m proud of him,” Nick says. “Our little popstar.”

“More yours than mine,” Aimee replies.

Nick fidgets and doesn’t say anything for a minute. He and Harry have been together at least part of every day Harry’s been in London, and it’s so much like having a boyfriend that Nick can’t think too hard about it without panicking a little. “I like him.”

“I know you do. He likes you too.”

Harry catches his eye and waves him over to the centre of the room. “This is pretty good, right? Are you having fun?”

There are posters of Harry’s solemn singer-songwriter face all over the room, but real Harry’s grinning so big it’s nearly blinding. “Pretty good watching everyone say how brilliant you are. No more crying jags about the album getting shelved now.”

“I’m really glad you came.” Harry reaches out and squeezes his wrist, which is probably the most that’s safe in this crowd. “I wanted to ask, my mum’s coming later. And I’d like her to meet you. Is that okay?”

Nick’s heart trips over itself in his chest. “Does she know who I am?”

“As much as she needs to. I wanted her to know I was… involved, you know?”

Nick swallows. “Of course. I’ll try not to spill anything on myself before she gets here.”

Harry smirks.

“That too.” Nick wants to kiss him with his mouth like that, but he can’t. “I’m gonna go back to lurking with Aimee in the corner, all right? But I’ll be around when you need me.”

“Thanks.”

Aimee’s got the champagne ready for him when he gets back. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she says

“He wants me to meet his mum.”

“I think you may have to accept that you are in a relationship.” She enunciates each syllable, and Nick glares at her. “Unless you want to tell him otherwise.”

Nick looks back at Harry, who’s demonstrating his dance moves to someone from Little Mix. He feels deeply, inextricably fond. “No,” says Nick. “That’s not what I want at all.”


End file.
